


If the Phone Doesn't Ring (You'll Know That it's Me)

by schweet_heart



Series: The Prince's Book of Hours [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Drabble, Fluff, M/M, Resurrection, Romantic Comedy, remix eligible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-18 04:41:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2335697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You hang up." / "No, <i>you</i> hang up." Merthur style. Inspired by <a href="http://ynysafallon.tumblr.com/post/77336586736/dollopheadsandclotpoles-you-know-how-in-movies">this</a> tumblr post.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If the Phone Doesn't Ring (You'll Know That it's Me)

 

“You are so obnoxious,” Merlin says, and Arthur can hear him laughing into the phone line. “I can’t believe I’m still talking to you. You are an absolute prat. Hang up the phone.”

“I’m not obnoxious, you’re obnoxious,” Arthur retorts, haughty, and all right, it’s not the best comeback in history, but he’s about to cross a really busy intersection and he needs all of his concentration to avoid getting hit by a car. The twenty-first century is so much _faster_ than he’s used to. “ _You_ called _me_ , remember? You should hang up first.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to be the one who hangs up,” Merlin says. “Nowhere in the handbook of cell phone etiquette does it say that the person who initiated the call has to be the one to end it.”

“The fact remains,” says Arthur, and then he has to pause for a moment to avoid being clobbered by a young woman with a pushchair that’s taking up half the crossing and far too many bags on one shoulder. He swaps hands, dodges her neatly, and continues: “The fact remains, _Mer_ lin, that I don’t know _how_ to end a call on this infernal device. Therefore, it’s your responsibility.”

This is not strictly true; although Merlin’s attempts to acclimatise Arthur to modern technology have so far been hilariously abysmal, he is not so _entirely_ devoid of brains as his former manservant sometimes makes out, and had actually figured out most of the essential functions several days ago. Nevertheless, if playing dumb means that Merlin will continue to give him that particular long-suffering look and sigh fussily before reaching over to untangle the toaster cord for the umpteenth time, or, like now, dissolve into helpless laughter at Arthur’s — entirely feigned — incompetence, then he is willing to make that sacrifice. He has a lot to make up for, after all.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Merlin is saying. “You’ve hung up on me at least three times this week, Arthur; besides, contrary to what you might think, I know you can’t be _that_ stupid.”

“Fine,” Arthur says, giving in with bad grace, the way he always does. “Maybe I just don’t want to hang up.”

And, call him crazy, but Arthur can almost _feel_ Merlin’s beaming smile at the unintentional admission. The sky is overcast and drizzling, demonstrating what Merlin has informed him is ‘typical British weather,’ but it still feels like the sun has come out in his little corner of the street, warm and amused and just a little bit brilliant.

“You’ll be seeing me in the flesh in less than twenty minutes,” Merlin says, his voice soft. He is definitely smiling. “Are you going to keep talking until then?”

“I suppose I’m going to have to, aren’t I?” Arthur tries to sound put-upon, but it just comes out fond. “Goodness knows what will happen to you if I don’t. You might be mugged or kidnapped or poached by rogue elephant-hunters who mistake your ears for those of African game.”

There is a strangled noise of protest from the tinny speakers. Arthur smirks.

“You are _so obnoxious_ ,” Merlin says again, but he’s still smiling, Arthur can tell. “I am never letting you watch Discovery Channel again.”

“Please,” Arthur says. “By all means, forbid me from watching the channel with all the dead animals on it that inevitably makes you weep like a little girl. I’m sure the flat will be drier for it.” 

“That is _it_ ,” Merlin exclaims, and then abruptly his voice cuts off, swallowed by a high-pitched beeping sound and then silence. Arthur actually stops walking, and takes the phone away from his ear to stare at the screen. _Call disconnected_ , it says, before going blank.

Merlin had hung up on him. _Mer_ lin had hung up on _him_. 

Arthur waits all of two seconds before thumbing the phone back to life and dialling Merlin’s number. Merlin _never_ hung up first, it was one of the Rules, because Merlin was the only one who knew that Arthur had literally come back from the dead, and was therefore the only one he could ask about things like _your computer is making a strange whirring sound is it likely to become violent_ without feeling stupid about it; and because Merlin knew that sometimes all of it, the past, the present, the impossible future, became too much and he just needed to hear a familiar voice; and, damn it, because Merlin understood and felt the same way and Merlin loved him and had waited hundreds of years to find him again and now that he was back Merlin hated to let him go, even for only a few minutes at a time.

Arthur doesn’t realise he’s panicking until he’s tried twice but the call still goes straight to Merlin’s voicemail, and he hears the familiar voice telling him to leave a message after the beep. He lets it go on long enough to bark, “Merlin, you utter idiot, pick up your phone!” before hanging up and starting to run.

In times of crisis, Arthur has always felt, a man’s instincts tend to take over, so it helps to ensure that those instincts are good ones. That was why he had always forced his knights to repeat their drills past the point of exhaustion, trying to drill into their subconscious minds the way to dodge, parry and strike so that it no longer required conscious thought. Arthur’s instincts, however, had been bred for another time and place, and if he had bothered to spare a moment for self-reflection he would have been mildly shocked that all his father’s training in diplomacy, tact and self-possession was utterly useless when faced with the possibility that Merlin was in danger. As it is, Arthur manages to forget that he’s in a city now, with things like taxis and buses and public transportation, and sets out quite literally to run halfway across London. 

 

+

 

When he reaches the café where they had agreed to meet for lunch, Arthur is out of breath and Merlin isn’t there. The other pedestrians give him odd looks and a wide berth as he turns in a frantic circle, searching, but as none of them is who he’s looking for Arthur frankly doesn’t care. He pulls out his phone again, hoping against hope to find a missed call or text message, but there’s nothing. 

“God damn it, Merlin,” he mutters out loud. “Where are you?”

There’s a stitch in his side and he’s obviously gotten out of shape, being dead, because he can’t seem to remember how to breathe properly, his lungs heaving in and out like a pair of bellows yet none of the air seeming to make it past his throat. The thing about Merlin is that, magic aside, he’s really quite hopeless at just about everything, and it doesn’t take much imagination for Arthur to picture him dead in a ditch somewhere, run over by one of the beastly vehicles that populate the city streets; or worse, lying injured and alone where Arthur would never find him, and Arthur is a king to his very bones and used to making the best of a bad situation, but these days he’s not really king of very much and he’s almost 100% certain that without Merlin he may quite possibly curl up and die, for good this time, once and future destiny be damned.

He has just about made up his mind to start running again — has turned around to do it, in fact — when he collides bodily with another figure who seems to have had the same idea, and the two of them bounce off one another like twin boomerangs orbiting a single point. 

“Arthur!” A familiar voice exclaims, and suddenly Merlin is there, red-faced and anxious, his hands clutching at Arthur’s arms to keep from falling over. “There you are! I came as fast as I could.”

For one of the few times in his life, Arthur finds that he is literally speechless. Merlin seems completely unharmed, no blood on his face, no gaping wounds anywhere, and Arthur is abruptly seized with the desire to shake him off and step back a little, just to regain his equilibrium. He opts for yelling at him instead. 

“You hung up on me!”

“I didn’t mean to,” Merlin says immediately, contrite. “My phone died.”

“Died? Your phone _died_? I thought _you’d_ died, you absolute lackwit! You can’t just — just _disappear_ on me like that in the middle of a conversation — “

“I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry, Arthur, the battery ran out of power, I swear, I didn’t do it on purpose.” Merlin’s still holding onto him, looking into his face with a little frown that could mean anything, but which Arthur thinks means _you’re worried_ and _I’m upset that you’re worried_ and maybe even, _I’m upset about how happy I am that you’re worried,_ and wonders how even Merlin’s facial expressions can be so ridiculously obvious and yet over-complicated. “I didn’t hang up on you. I promise.”

Instead of answering, Arthur makes a frustrated noise, yanks him close and then just kisses him. Mostly because he can. It’s so new, this, and in many ways unfamiliar and fragile, but if there’s one thing Arthur knows at this moment its that he _needs_ to touch Merlin, to make sure he’s really all right, and that maybe Merlin needs to touch him too. He reaches up to grip the other man’s wrists in turn, trying to convey _you idiot_ and _stop worrying_ and _it’s okay to care that I care_ without, you know, having to say any of it. 

“You,” he mutters, when they break apart. “Are a total idiot.”

“Yeah?”

“Completely incompetent,” Arthur confirms, not looking away from Merlin’s eyes as he says it. “And if you _had_ managed to get yourself abducted by big game hunters, I’m not sure I wouldn’t have let them keep you. As it is, you’re going to sit through several episodes of _Animal Planet_ with me as punishment, even if it does mean I have to mop up all your tears afterwards.”

Merlin’s answering laugh is the best thing he’s heard in forever.

“You prat,” he says, letting go of Arthur to loop one arm around his waist and settle in, warm and solid and real against his side. “I almost wish I had been poached, if this is what I have to look forward to. Those poor animals!”

“It’s your own fault,” Arthur tells him, smug, breathing in deep and tasting, strangely, something clean and light. “Maybe next time you’ll just hang up when you're told.”

"I wouldn't bet on it," Merlin mutters, before ducking inside the café and making a beeline for the muffin counter. But he's still holding onto Arthur's shirt as he goes, so that's all right.


End file.
